


And we'll draw in breaths like we don't have air

by noelia_g



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, D/s, Flogging, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:50:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are days when Grantaire needs this, even though he hasn't yet learned how to ask (the good thing, the best thing is, usually he doesn't have to).</p>
            </blockquote>





	And we'll draw in breaths like we don't have air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celle/gifts).



Ironically enough, it’s when Grantaire accuses him of being either blind or clueless (re: not making any difference with his protests and speeches and rallies, an old and by now comfortable argument that right now is anything but) that Enjolras finally gets a clue, his eyes widening and then narrowing as he studies Grantaire for a truly uncomfortable long moment.

And honestly, Grantaire doesn’t know if he’s relieved or terrified, if he _wanted_ Enjolras to figure out why Grantaire has been acting like a little shit for the entirety of the meeting (not an uncommon occurrence, but even he knows he’s been pushing it today, to the point where even Combeferre gave up on trying to change the topic and took to cleaning his glasses ferociously - all the better to glare at them later). He’s been working up to _something_ and it was either this or Enjolras punching him.

What happens, though, is Enjolras shutting down almost completely, his face smoothing out into a blank look, fists unclenching. He flexes his fingers once, twice, as they probably itch with circulation coming back, and then lies them flat on his knees as he turns the discussion back to the next week’s protest, dreadfully calm and composed once more.

This shuts Grantaire up for all of ten seconds, which is probably a record anyway, but whenever he speaks again, Enjolras refuses to rise to the bait, simply continuing the meeting. It’s efficiently over in ten minutes flat, also probably a record, and if everyone is a little too relieved and scrambling to leave a little too fast, with no lingering for conversation or beer as they usually are, well, some people have a sense of self-preservation.

Not Grantaire though, that’s been firmly established. 

“Don’t,” Enjolras tells him the moment Grantaire makes his way over to him, reaching out to bury his fingers in Grantaire’s hair, at the back of his head. It’s a gentle caress that turns into something else as he tugs roughly, forcing Grantaire to look straight at him (as if he ever stopped). Grantaire groans in a completely undignified way, but it’s not like he had any dignity to begin with. 

He has quite a few choices now and he knows Enjolras is waiting for him to make one. He can lean into the touch and then into an inevitable kiss, make it an apology he knows Enjolras will accept. He can shrug off the touch and follow that with a smug comment and it will spiral into an argument, but Enjolras will stay on his best behaviour, guarded, keeping it from becoming vicious.

Or he can stay like this and do nothing at all, and this is a choice all on its own, even if it leads to being the last one he’ll be making this evening.

He’d be lying if he said it isn’t exactly what he’s been after.

Grantaire forces himself to relax, wills the tension to leave his shoulders, tries to stay still. He manages one out of three, but it’s enough for Enjolras to nod and move his hand to the side of Grantaire’s face. “You do realise that all you have to do is ask?” he says with fond exasperation and Grantaire shrugs.

“I thought I was,” he points out.

Enjolras gives him an unimpressed look, but doesn’t let go yet. “Go home, wait for me,” he says, his gentle tone not changing the fact that it’s an order, received loud and clear. “ _Just_ wait for me,” he adds and Grantaire knows what that means; no starting on his own, no touching himself and, above all else, no drinking. 

“Thank you,” he says and Enjolras softly scratches him behind his ear, like Grantaire is being a good pet, and fuck, that shouldn’t go straight to his dick, but here they are, and he leans into the touch once more. “Enjolras,” he says, his voice coming out in a petulant warning, because either Enjolras needs to leave or Grantaire has to, or they won’t make it back home, neither of them, and it would be really embarrassing to get thrown out of the cafe _again_.

“I know,” Enjolras tells him and bows his head to kiss him lightly, just a reassuring brush of his lips over Grantaire’s. “Go, wait for me at home,” he repeats, warm air tickling Grantaire’s lips, and steps back before heading out.

Grantaire belatedly thinks he should have asked for clarification, but he probably doesn’t need to. He hasn’t spent a night at his own place in just about three weeks, only venturing there for a change of clothes or painting supplies. He should probably let it go and just acknowledge that they’ve moved in together when no one was looking, but he doesn’t quite know how to broach the subject with Enjolras, unsure if he isn’t presuming.

Still, Enjolras said _home_ and, well.

Grantaire lets himself in and leaves his bag in the living room and his jacket over the back of the couch. He kicks off his shoes but doesn’t shed any more clothes; he hasn’t been specifically told to. 

He kind of wishes he was, that the order was to wait naked; there’s a different kind of anticipation in that, on the edge between vulnerability and exhilaration and shame. Now, his shirt is too scratchy all of a sudden and his jeans are definitely too tight. He lies in the bed with his legs sprawled and has to press the heel of his hand against his dick to try and keep himself under control.

“Now, what did I say?” Enjolras admonishes from where he’s leaning against the doorway. Grantaire moves his hand immediately, dropping it to the side. He makes a good attempt at an apologetic look that probably wouldn’t fool anyone, least of all Enjolras.

Fuck but he really needs to touch his cock. Or better yet, have Enjolras touch it. 

“Kneel up,” Enjolras orders, not moving from his vantage point. “Shirt off.”

This is more like it. Grantaire hastens to obey, pulling his shirt over his head and dropping it to the side. He spread his legs just a little bit more as he kneels, knowing Enjolras is watching him. And sure enough, Enjolras licks his lips in appreciation, and the look in his eyes is more than just enjoying the show; he looks like he’s _amazed_ by Grantaire, and that in turn makes Grantaire forget how to breathe.

Finally, _finally_ Enjolras makes his way closer to the bed. He’s already barefoot and he lost his jacket somewhere on the way, because no one can say Enjolras wastes his time. He sits down on the edge of the bed and leans closer to Grantaire, his hand flat on Grantaire’s chest. “This is not a punishment,” he tells Grantaire.

“Yes, I have been there for this particular round of discussions,” Grantaire tells him, trying for exasperated and arriving at breathless and fucking turned on, so business as usual. “And all the others.”

“Good, tell me then.”

“Enjolras.”

“Grantaire,” he shoots right back, unimpressed. “Tell me.”

“This is not a punishment, you’re not going to do anything I don’t want you to,” he parrots back before shrugging. “Well, need you to, more like, and the sooner the better pretty please.”

“And?”

Grantaire’s ability to roll his eyes is a little bit impaired by the fact that Enjolras’ face so close to his and his hand on Grantaire’s chest, warm and solid, makes him want to whimper and lean in closer. But he gives it his best effort anyway. “Green means go, yellow means rethink your life choices, and red means fuck no. Seriously, Enjolras, a five year old could remember this.”

“Are you actively _trying_ to ruin the mood?” Enjolras asks pleasantly and takes his hand back, which is the worst. 

“You could always find a better way for me to use my mouth,” he suggests and sure, it’s a cliche one, but it’s a cliche for a good fucking reason.

“Now, why aren’t you so full of helpful suggestions during the meetings?”

“If you want me to blow you during one of your meetings, you only need to ask, Enjolras, I’m there, bells on.”

“Let’s pause on the bells,” Enjolras mutters and that’s not a no to a blowjob and holy shit, Grantaire is totally making a note of it for future use and they’re totally fucking doing it. It might get them thrown out of Musain though. 

Choices, choices.

He starts to consider this when Enjolras reaches down to palm his cock through the increasingly more strained jeans (how on earth is he getting _harder_ , that shit should be physically impossible), like he wants to see exactly how turned on Grantaire is. The answer is very fucking much, as if that hasn’t been obvious. It’s pretty damn obvious now, because he practically keens and pushes his hips more into Enjolras’ hand.

Enjolras, though, the stubborn asshole that he is, immediately removes his hand. “Easy there,” he tells Grantaire. “First things first. Tell me what you need.”

“Anything, Enjolras,” he says honestly. “Anything you want.”

Enjolras hums thoughtfully and cards his fingers through Grantaire’s hair, practically petting him. “We’ll get there. Tell me what you _need_ now.”

“The flogger,” Grantaire says and wow, is the word out of his mouth before he even has time to think about it. Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t seem surprised, his hand never stilling in its caress. “Please,” he adds, his tone barely a whisper now.

“Of course,” Enjolras tells him lightly, the petting turning into scratching over Grantaire’s scalp, then down the side of his neck. Enjolras rakes his nails down Grantaire’s chest and then up again, repeating it a few times until Grantaire is ready to beg for more. He would, but Enjolras leans in to kiss him, nothing light about it now, licking his way into Grantaire’s mouth, biting at his lower lip, dragging it between his teeth. 

When he moves away Grantaire’s lips are swollen and wrecked and he’s breathing harshly. He still instinctively tries to follow Enjolras’ mouth, get more of this. Enjolras stops him, with a finger to his lips now, and Grantaire can’t help but flick his tongue over the pad of his finger. 

“Let me,” he asks.

“Full sentences, Grantaire,” Enjolras admonishes, and how on earth does he sound coherent and composed now, fuck. It’s one of life’s eternal mysteries and Grantaire never does not marvel at it.

“Please let me suck your dick,” he says, pretty proud of himself when the words are barely stuttered out. 

Enjolras mhms at him and pushes his thumb past Grantaire’s lips, letting him suck and lick on that. Grantaire closes his eyes for a second before trying to convey how well he could suck Enjolras’ cock if allowed. “Later,” Enjolras decides. “This will be your reward, alright?”

“So, if I’m good, I get to suck your cock,” he clarifies, wanting to know what he has to look forward to, if he behaves. 

Enjolras shakes his head. “I don’t foresee a scenario in which you wouldn’t be good for me,” he says softly and draws back, standing up before he leans in again, kissing Grantaire’s forehead. “I love you,” he says softly and Grantaire still thrills at this, every time Enjolras tells him. “Now, up with you, against the wall. You can unzip your pants, I don’t want you _too_ uncomfortable.”

“He says, when he’s just about to beat me bloody,” Grantaire mutters. It earns him a snort and a smack on the ass and he struggles to undo his pants while he’s laughing. It takes him a while, his fingers really don’t want to cooperate. “Where do you want me?”

“Everywhere, usually, but braced against the wall would do for now,” Enjolras tells him flatly. “Do you need restraints?”

“I’m good,” he says, swallowing. Anticipation pools in his stomach, his skin already tingling hot. He places his hands on the sides of his head and spreads his legs; they’re both familiar enough with the routine for Enjolras not to have to direct him. He still kicks lightly at Grantaire’s ankle to make him spread his legs that little further, but that’s mostly for Grantaire’s benefit, the silent command going straight to his cock. 

“Perfect. Do you want to know how many you’re getting?”

The most amazing thing about Enjolras when they do this is that through most of it, he sounds like they’re discussing weather, or the immigration reform. Well, no, he usually sounds way more worked up about the immigration reform. 

When they were starting, Grantaire worried that Enjolras wasn’t getting anything out of this, but he knows better now, he certainly does. 

As if to reassure him about this, Enjolras moves to stand close behind him, wrapping himself over Grantaire’s back. His hand reaches down to Grantaire’s cock, but not before he scratches his way down Grantaire’s stomach, digging his fingernails into his side, edging the waistline of his jeans. Then it’s fingernails on his dick, gentle but firm, the pain mixed perfectly with pleasure and Grantaire’s hips buck and he doesn’t know if he’s pressing himself back against Enjolras’ hard cock or is he pushing into his hand.

Either, both, anything.

“Grantaire,” he prompts and Grantaire struggles to remember what was the question. 

“Yes. I mean no, I don’t, I don’t want to know. You can decide when I’ve had enough,” he says and expects Enjolras to move away and start, but he stays close for a few moments more, still gently torturing Grantaire’s dick (and fuck, he’s going to come now and it’s going to be both terrible and humiliating and way way too soon). “Enjolras,” he draws out, and yeah, he’s already practically begging, this was to be expected.

“Hands on the wall, keep them there,” Enjolras tells him and takes his hand away thank fuck, except no. “Make all the sounds you want,” he adds, his breath tickling the back of Grantaire’s neck before he bows his head to kiss the skin between Grantaire’s shoulderblades. 

When he steps back Grantaire feels cold on his skin, on his back and his cock, and shivers, bowing his head and breathing in and out, deep slow breaths. 

He hears Enjolras move to across the room, open the drawer and pick up some things. He sets something down on the bedside table, for later, and then makes his way back to Grantaire, laying a steadying hand on his back, a wordless reassurance, before he moves back to have the room to move his arm. 

He’s not hesitant anymore, not after they’ve done this several times, and the first hit lands on Grantaire’s back perfectly. It’s light, barely stinging yet, but he knows this is just a warm-up, that Enjolras will work his way up and up. 

He shudders anyway; the first blow is always a surprise even when expected, wanted, needed. 

Enjolras works up a rhythm, steady but not completely predictable, enough to surprise but not enough to shock him out of the space he’s falling into. It stings now, hurts properly, hurts perfectly, the pain sharp and perfect. Grantaire grits his teeth and closes his eyes, trying to keep on breathing.

He’s pretty sure he’s whimpering already, but he can’t quite hear himself over the deafening sound of his own rushing pulse. 

His hands clench into fists but he doesn’t move them otherwise, braces himself harder. There’s a suspicious wetness on his face, salty when it reaches his lips, and he can’t even tell if it’s sweat or tears. 

“Enjolras, please,” he begs and once he does, it’s like the goddamn floodgate opening and he can’t stop, he needs more, he needs it to hurt more, and he can’t stop begging either. He feels hopelessly, pathetically grateful when Enjolras seems to understand his blubbering and hits harder, hits just _right_ , to the point when Grantaire thinks he’s about to black out from pain and bliss and pain.

“Good,” Enjolras tells him and stops, the world blurry and spinning all around them.

Grantaire sags forward, his forehead against the cold wall, his knees buckling. Enjolras steps in close, arms around his, helping him lower himself to the ground, onto his knees. “‘Jolras,” he mutters, slurring it out, not even able to pronounce correctly. 

“That’s good, you were so good,” Enjolras mutters, his hands gentle in Grantaire’s hair, petting him again, letting Grantaire fall face-first into him, hide his face in the crook of Enjolras’ shoulder. His lips move against Enjolras’ skin, but he’s still unable to form proper words, just the shape of Enjolras’ name. “Absolutely perfect, Grantaire, so perfect for me,” he whispers the last into the shell of Grantaire’s ear, kissing it gently, his lips soft. 

Grantaire shudders and moves back just an inch, to look at Enjolras, into the eyes that are so dark now they’re practically black, and then to kiss him hungrily, have Enjolras shudder against him and groan into his mouth. 

The world is a little bit more in focus now, and he remembers what he’s been promised. “Come on, let me, let me taste you, I need,” he says, all sentences abandoned midway, but Enjolras seems to understand anyway. He traces Grantaire’s lips with his thumb and kisses him lightly again, before standing up. 

Grantaire moves closer to nuzzle against Enjolras’ thigh then proceeds to mouth over the bulge straining Enjolras’ pants. Enjolras reaches out to grasp his hair, visibly steadying himself. He struggles to undo his pants and lets Grantaire help, both of their hands moving over Enjolras’ cock. 

It makes Enjolras groan and buck his hips hard, but his hand in Grantaire’s hair is gentle, moving to rest on the back of his neck, just the slightest hint of pressure. 

Grantaire is too short of breath to attempt deep-throating, but he can lick to his heart’s content, and he can suck at the head of Enjolras’ cock, slowly working up to taking in more, helping himself with his hand stroking up and down the length of it. 

Enjolras reaches out blindly behind, steadying himself against the wall, his knuckles white, but the hand touching Grantaire is still offering a gentle caress, even when he’s coming and his knees buckle. Grantaire continues sucking him through it, until his groans turn into keening and he finally loses control enough to tug on Grantaire’s hair roughly before pulling away, leaning against the wall to steady himself.

“Do you want me to,” he starts and Grantaire shakes his head.

“Just tell me I can,” he asks and Enjolras lowers himself to his knees, facing him.

“Come for me,” he says, his voice perfectly steady again, like he hasn’t just moaned himself hoarse seconds ago. He sounds calm and composed and absolutely in control even while he looks utterly _wrecked_ and this juxtaposition is just one more thing that ensures that Grantaire needs only to touch his own cock, tug at him once, twice, before he’s coming, shuddering his release. 

He might have actually blacked out there for a second, because then he’s in Enjolras’ arms again, being held impossibly close, Enjolras whispering once more how perfect Grantaire was.

“Thanks,” he says, muttered into Enjolras’ neck. He can’t yet bring himself to look up at him. “I needed this,” he adds and feels Enjolras nod before he’s moving away and helping Grantaire stand up. 

There’s an expression on his face that means Grantaire will probably have to tell him what brought this on (beyond the usual, beyond the part where he gets wrapped up in his own head and it feels dark and small and petrifying and he needs to escape and this helps like nothing else, at least nothing that he considers anymore), but for now he’s content to let Enjolras guide him back to the bed and make him lay down on his stomach.

He gently tugs off Grantaire’s jeans and lets them fall to the floor with a thud, joined by Enjolras’ own clothes.

“Water?” he asks and Grantaire mutters an acknowledgement into the bedsheet. Enjolras moves into the bathroom and comes back with a cup filled with cold water, touching Grantaire the moment he returns. He’s always pretty much tactile, but it goes into overdrive when they do this, and Grantaire thinks it’s only partially because he’s done more aftercare research than is probably healthy. 

He’s grateful for some things, though, like the way Enjolras moves to be in Grantaire’s line of sight, sitting up against the headboard and letting Grantaire pillow his head on Enjolras’ thigh. “Come on, up just a little,” he coaxes and nods with satisfaction when Grantaire drinks most of the water. “I should clean these up...” he starts, running his hand over Grantaire’s shoulder, fingertips edging the marks on his back.

“Enjolras,’ Grantaire groans into the skin of his thigh. “This thing, this is called an afterglow.”

“I am aware,” Enjolras says seriously, but there is a clear smile in his voice, like he knows it’s going towards a punchline and he is waiting for it.

“Then please, for fuck’s sake, just relax and glow.”

Enjolras laughs then, Grantaire’s pillow shaking for a few seconds before he clearly forces himself to stay still. “I can try for you,” he offers and yeah, Grantaire will take that.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't tell you how long it's been since I wrote proper porn and I feared I forgot how. Then Celle was talking about flogging and Grantaire and well, one thing led to another and I wrote this. I am seriously freakin' nervous about this one, so comments and thoughts are more than welcome.
> 
> Again, I'm realitycheckbounced on tumblr, come say hi, let me have more Les Mis cast pics to reblog and slowly spiral into insanity in the tags.


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